Ashton's Notes

note 13

I highly doubt you anticipate absorbing the knowledge of the exact time I decide to pick my black ink pen up and write. But, in case you were wondering it is exactly midnight. And I think everybody is unknowingly obsessed with this time. Countless times I've used the word to describe the darkness leaking into Amelia Winter's eyes. And people like to think of their midnight thoughts as something deep and utterly miserable. Midnight skies and eyes and cries. This is what midnight is made for.
For me, however, any time when the sun is still in another section of the world is my absolute favorite time to write. Half the world is filled with silence that can only be broken by time itself. Such a lonely time, a time when thoughts are seldom interrupted, the best or worst time depending on the person, I suppose. I believe I too am obsessed with this time. I do not think of myself as superior or all that different, I have feelings and the strangest obsessions like any mortal would. Or I at least hope I'm not the only one who has to have four pretzels in my mouth at a time, two on each side, or else it just doesn't feel right. And I hope that I'm not the only one who will only write with a black ink pen because in my eyes it looks pretty. Like Amelia's eyes. Am I the only one who has to count telephone poles when passing by them in a car, or having a terribly weird obsession with people's hands?
Anyways, as I write this for you my own handful of miserable thoughts are arising. Let us talk about Amelia Winters and Michael Clifford. Just putting those two names in the same sentence makes me want to puke. Amelia told me she would consider my advice right before a heavy hearted goodbye. I do not think for one second that she would ever saunter over to her mother and swear at her and I doubt she'd ever punch Michael square in the jaw. Because fear of the future wrecks the present.
But I still have a small ounce of hope her fist will be stained a deep red next time I have the chance to see it. And I hope she maybe even asks for a place to stay, with me, when her mother kicks her out. It's so wrong for me to hope. My hopes, 9 times out of 10, deteriorate into sniffles and cries. I've realized that there's not a need for hope in my life, because each time I hope the exact opposite becomes an awful reality. And, now that I take the time to think about it, that's probably why I am not dead, because I keep hoping I won't wake up. Hope is the fucking darkness in my world I need a made up world that will come true I'm so sick and tired of being crushed. I'm so tired.
I should at least try and sleep, I suppose I owe Amelia at least that much. I don't wish that she will be present in my dreams because all of my dreams are nightmares.

(A/N Ashton is my spirit animal.)